Disbelief And Doubt
by Lady Patriot
Summary: Third oneshot, from Groves' point of view. Companion to Transparent Guilt and The Price Of Duty.


One-shot from Groves' point-of-view, in answer to a challenge laid down last night.

None of the characters that appeared in the two Pirates of the Caribbean movies are mine, but the property of Disney, et al. No profit is being made off this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

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_Dauntless_ shifted her bulk slightly on the gentle roll of a passing swell, her larboard side rising an inch or two on the outgoing wave. The motion gave him a slightly better view of the other second-rate that was swinging lazily about on her anchor cables. That other ship was very similar to _Dauntless_, except for its name and purpose for being in Port Royal. Uneasy chills raced through him whenever he looked across the water at the other ship. It, and the officers who'd travelled aboard her, were only there to drag away the Commodore for certain court-martial back home, in England. As might be expected, _Dauntless_' crew had not been thrilled at all when the other second-rate first came into view on the horizon. The unease had deepened when the newly-arrived ship dropped anchor and the enquiry board officers had been rowed ashore. Waiting was always painful.

What was going on ashore? Had the enquiry board decided to drop all charges? That was about as likely as _Interceptor_ rising from the depths to sail again. Sighing, he stepped away from the larboard rail, unable to look at the other second-rate any more. The sailors aboard her were hard at work tarring ropes, as he had noted earlier through a telescope. There was a crispness in their movements that had caused a brief murmur of envy to ripple through _Dauntless_' sailors, but the marines aboard had scoffed at the sight of their counterparts. He'd heard their ribald comments and shouted jeers, added to by the sailors of the afternoon-watch, and been hard-pressed not to chuckle. It was unbecoming to allow the marines and then the sailors to act out so badly, but what did it hurt? It was a certainty that the other ship's crew had not fought as fierce a battle for their ship as had _Dauntless_' crew. It was understandable for them to think poorly of any other ship's Company.

Across the ship, the marine near the belfry turned over the hourglass and reached for the bellrope. Seven bells, nearly the end of the watch. Gillette was due back aboard soon, to take his duty as officer of the watch. He couldn't wait for his friend to return, so he could go ashore himself and enjoy a couple hours at The King's Schilling, the favoured tavern of Dauntless' lieutenants. A few rounds of brandy would help relax his uneasiness, without a doubt. Trotting easily up the steps to the poop deck, Groves found himself again turning his gaze toward the other second-rate. God why did he keep staring at that damn ship? It was like seeing a wrecked carriage on the side of the street, the fine vehicle smashed and broken in a horrible way. One couldn't help but stare at it. If his fellow lieutenant was aboard, he'd have plenty of sharp comments to make about the other ship.

And where was Gillette, anyway? He had gone ashore early that morning, saying he had business at the fort. Surely he knew that he was due to take over the watch in less than half an hour? Never in Groves' memory had the other lieutenant been late for a duty. If anything, he returned aboard well before. Perhaps he had gotten delayed, some meeting with the Commodore or one of the marine officers, most likely. It was even possible that he'd been called before the enquiry board to give testimony against the Commodore. Groves shuddered at that thought, glad he had not suffered such a summons and sympathetic that Gillette had.

"Sir!" A sailor cried from aloft. Groves looked up to see the man pointing toward the other second-rate, and turned quickly to see what had caught the sailor's eye. It was the other ship's long-boat, returning from ashore. There were two blue jackets in the stern-sheets, instead of the one that had gone ashore with the long-boat that morning. He snatched up a telescope and peered through it, his breath catching in his throat. Jesus Mary and Joseph, _that was Gillette!_ The telescope clattered to the deck as Groves dropped it, dashing to the poop deck rail.

"_Bosun!_" The summons ripped from his throat as a roar, his lungs mustering every bit of sound they could to issue it. He had to stop that long-boat from reaching its destination somehow, reclaim the officer sitting stiffly within it, the all-too-familiar glint of irons hanging from his wrists. He knew in that instant what had happened ashore and it sickened him. "_Bosun on deck!_"

Matheson appeared a heartbeat later, tossing up a hasty salute and looking as though he'd sprinted the length of the ship. "Sar?"

For a moment, Groves froze, about to tell the man to pipe All Hands and prepare to sail, but that was madness. Equally as mad was his next thought, of ordering the ship cleared for action. Firing on the other second-rate would constitute an act of treason, for which he'd hang. _But that was his friend being rowed to that bloody ship!_ Dammit! The lieutenant looked again toward the long-boat cutting across the water and felt himself shiver. Matheson, apparently following the officer's gaze, let out a heartfelt oath.

"All Hands, sar?"

_Bless you, Matheson._ "If you please," Groves answered thickly. "Hands to the side, marines as well." The boatswain's question had steadied him, given him something upon which he could grasp and anchor his wild thoughts. The sharp, shrill call of All Hands rang out and there was a thunder of feet as the ship's Company scrambled to assemble on deck. Swallowing the hard lump in his throat, Groves shouted, "Hands to larboard rail, by divisions! Sergeant of Marines! Musket salute!"

Realisation of what was happening seized the crew and they were quick to obey the command. The divisions fell in swiftly and the marine company lined up in their customary neat ranks, muskets held at shoulder-arms. Devlin, the sergeant, drew his sword and laid the flat of the blade across his shoulder, sharp-edge facing out. Groves watched the spectacle unfolding along the entire stretch of the larboard rail, from quarter-deck to the foc's'le. The ship's Company was fully turned out and the next sound was the sergeant's gruff bark of "Marines, pre-sent, _arms!_ One volley, _fire!_" and then the unified crack of the muskets followed after a second's delay. It took less than a few minutes for it all to transpire, but when Groves retrieved the dropped telescope and trained it on the long-boat again, he saw the two officers in the stern-sheets staring across at them. One of them reached up with his manacled hands and removed his hat.

"Hats off, lads, and a cry for Lieutenant Gillette!" Matheson bellowed, and _Dauntless_' timbers gave a shiver as her seven hundred and fifty sailors let out a shout. His skin crawling at the noise, Groves looked away. As the echo of their voices faded away, he wondered how it had come to pass that Gillette ended up bearing the formal blame and not the Commodore. Someone had effected a deception and he had a very strong feeling as to who that was.

"Call away the gig, Mister Matheson. Midshipman Evans! You have the watch, I am going ashore." The orders rolled crisply off his tongue, surprising him at the lack of tremor in his words. A steely sense of purpose had taken over and he waited impatiently for the gig to be lowered into the water. He clambered down into the gig when at last it was ready, and the boat crew rowed him as swiftly as they could to shore.

The marines patrolling the walltops of the fort seemed to do so half-heartedly, he noted, as he sprinted up the dirt track to the main gate. No one spared him a second glance or raised a voice in question when he barrelled into the building that housed the work-offices. Scarlet-coated marines stood at intervals along the corridor that was his destination, but his shoes skidded on the stone floor as he tried to slow his speed and he fell in an undignified heap. Swearing, he shoved away the marine who dashed over to help him up and fairly kicked open the door to the Commodore's office, announcing himself with "_Why?_"

The Commodore looked up slowly from the glass of brandy he had been nursing and met Groves' wild stare coolly. "It was his choice."

"No. It couldn't have been." He refused to believe that glib reply, and all the implications that were tied to it. It was impossible, Gillette couldn't have just decided to fall on his sword like that, not knowing that he was due for promotion soon. Groves' gaze hardened as he studied the expressionless mask fitted over the Commodore's face and realised that it had to true, that it had to have been an unofficial order. A strong suggestion, something heavily hinted at, that action be taken to preserve the Commodore's reputation and career. _Bastard._ How dare he even think about suggesting that a junior officer sacrifice himself to spare his own career? It was the height of insult and effrontery. "It _can't_ have been his choice, he was due for captaincy, for God's sake! How could you have done this?"

The door frame shuddered when Groves stamped out, slamming the door shut as he went, not bothering to wait for a reply. He already knew the answer, and it would have been another lie. The marine corporal standing guard outside the office reached out and took hold of his coat sleeve, stopping him as he started to stride off down the corridor.

"It weren't the Commodore's doin', sar, 'twas 'Tenant Gillette wot ordered me to stop him from goin' to – "

Angry at the marine, both for daring to impede his departure and for making excuses for the Commodore, Groves' hand flicked out and landed against the man's face, a half-punch, half-slap that caused the marine to rock back on his heels in surprise. Released from the man's grip, the lieutenant stormed away, knowing that life at the fort and aboard ship would never be the same.


End file.
